Page 28 of Liar's Heart
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pull my phone out and take a picture of the dagger. I switch to my texts to send it, only to find a new message waiting for me.
Ender
Did you find what you needed?
Not yet, but look what I did find.
Ender
It’s my favorite one.
Uh-huh. I bet you say that to everyone who buys you gifts.
Ender
Never. I don’t lie to you, vixen. If I say it’s my favorite, then it’s because it’s my favorite. I have fond memories of that knife. I’m hoping to make a few more.
My eyebrow rises at the last message.
Oh? And what kinds of memories does one hope to make with a dagger, Mr. Sinclair?
Ender
I’d rather show you than tell, Mrs. Sinclair.
My cheeks heat at his commanding tone, the innuendo in his words clear. Biting my lip, I follow him down the path this conversation is headed.
What would you show me first?
Ender
Look around the room for me.
Now pick how you want to defile my study first. Bent over the arm of the couch? Do you want to crawl under my desk naked and use your mouth on me while I work, ignoring you until I’m done? So many possibilities. I need my clever little fox to pick one and tell me where we’re going to start tonight.
By the time I finish reading the text, I'm panting at the picture he's painted in my mind. Everything in this room is now cast in a licentious light, the possibilities endless. I must have been lost in thought for too long because my phone buzzes in my hand again.
Ender
Well, vixen? Tell me where we're starting.
Your desk. I want you to fuck me on top of your desk. Please.
Ender
That’s my good wife.
Moving away from the wall, I decide to go through the files I pulled first and see if I can get any new information out of Ender while we're in here tonight. Besides, my focus is damn near shot now. It's going to be a fight to think of anything else the rest of the day except how sore I am between my thighs and my husband's promises to make it worse later. I sink into the chair behind the desk, raking my lip through my teeth as I run a palm along the lacqueredsurface and think of how good it’ll feel to turn those daydreams into memories.
Settling in for some light reading, I swing a leg up to cross over the other but don’t judge my clearance correctly and accidentally smack my foot into the desk. My foot must have caught on the bottom drawer because it slides open about an inch. I wasn’t planning on going through his desk yet, but since the drawer is already open…
Might as well, right?
The drawer opens smoothly on its track, revealing a few hanging file folders and a box shoved behind them. Ignoring the files, I dig out the box and set it on top of the desk. It’s black, wooden, and heavy, with silver latches securing it but no lock. It’s big, too, and took up most of the drawer it was in.
I undo the latches and open the lid to reveal neat rows of bronze coins turned on their sides in a black velvet tray. Only their edges are visible like this, stacked horizontally to fit as many as possible into each row, but I still know exactly what they are. Running a nail along the first row of them, I feel each little click as I move from one coin to the next. When I get to the end of the row, I hook the last one out with my finger and bring it up to the light. Pressed into the metal on one side is the all-seeing eye of the Society, the same symbol that’s inked into the center of my husband’s chest. The other side is a skull that looks nearly identical to Charon’s mask, hovering over a skiff.
Obols. All of these are obols. Dozens of them per row. The tray lifts out, revealing another, then another. Five in total, each holding probably a hundred obols—each coin marking a soul my husband’s taken.
